'Bleep yourself,' he said, trying again to set it for single space typing
Eventually, he had a typed description. It looked like the work of a ten-year-old, but it would have to do. He took the sheets of paper through to his office. There was a note from Flight on his desk:
'John, I wish you wouldn't keep disappearing. I've run a check on missing persons: Five women have been reported missing north of the river in the past forty-eight hours. Two of these could be explicable, but the other three look more serious. Maybe you're right, the Wolfman's getting hungrier. No feedback from the press stories yet though. See you when you've finished shagging the Prof.'
It was signed simply 'GF'. How did Flight know where he'd been yesterday afternoon? An inspired guess, or something more cunning and devious? It didn't really matter. What mattered were the missing women. If Rebus's hunch were true, then the Wolfman was losing some of his previous control and that, meant that sometime soon he was bound to make a mistake. They need only goad him a little more. The Jan Crawford story might just' do that particular trick. Rebus had to sell the idea to Flight — and to Farraday. They had to be made to see that it was the right move at the right time. Three missing' women. That would bring the count to seven. Seven murders; There was no telling where it would stop. He rubbed at his head again. The hangover was returning with a steel-tipped vengeance.
'John?'
She was standing in the doorway, trembling, her eyes wide.
'Lisa?' He rose slowly to his, feet. 'Lisa, what is it?' What's wrong?'
She stumbled towards him. There were tears in her eyes and her hair was slick with sweat. 'Thank God,' she said, clinging to him. 'I thought I'd never … I didn't know what to do, where to go. Your hotel said you'd already left. The Sergeant on the desk downstairs let me come up. He recognised me from the photo in the papers. My photo.' And then the tears came: hot, scalding, and loud. Rebus patted her on the back, trying to calm. her, wanting to know just what the hell had happened.
'Lisa,' he said quietly, 'just tell me about it.' He manoeuvred her onto a chair, with his hand rubbing soothingly at her neck. Every bit of her seemed damp with perspiration.
She pulled her bag onto her lap, opened it, and drew from one of the three compartments a small envelope, which she handed: silently to Rebus.
'What is it?' he asked.
'I got it — this morning,' she said, 'addressed to me by name and sent to my home.'
Rebus examined the typed name and address, the; first class stamp, and the postmark: London EC4. The frank stated that the letter had been posted the previous morning.
'He knows where I live, John. When I opened it this morning, I nearly died on the spot. I had to get out of the flat, but all the time I knew that maybe he was watching me.' Her eyes filled with water again, but she threw back her head so that the tears would not escape. She fished in her bag and came out with some paper tissues, peeling off one so that she could blow her nose. Rebus said nothing.
'It's a death threat,' she explained.
'A death threat?'
She nodded.
'Who from? Does it say?'
'Oh yes, it says all right. It's from the Wolfman, John. He says I'm going to be next.'
It was a rush job, but the lab, when they heard the circumstances, were happy to cooperate. Rebus stood with hands in pockets watching them at work. There was the crackle of paper in his pocket. He had folded the description of the, gang members and tucked it away, perhaps for future use: for now, there were more important matters to attend to.
The story was straightforward enough. Lisa- had been scared out of her wits by the letter, and more so by the fact that the Wolfman knew where she lived. She had tried contacting Rebus and when that failed had panicked, fleeing from her flat, aware that he might be watching her, might be about to pounce at any moment. The pity was, as the lab had already explained, she'd messed up-the letter, gripping it in her hand as she fled, destroying, any fingerprints or other evidence that there might have been on the envelope itself. Still, they'd do their best.
If the letter was from the Wolfman and not from some new and twisted crank, then there might well be clues to be had from the envelope and its contents: saliva (used to stick down both flap and stamp), fibres, fingerprints. These were the physical possibilities. Then there were more arcane elements: the typewriter itself might be traceable. Were there oddities of speech or misspellings which might yield a clue? And what about that postmark? The Wolfman had outwitted them in the past, so was the postal address another red herring?
The various processes involved would take time. The lab was efficient, but the chemical analyses could not be hurried. Lisa had come to the lab, too, as had George Flight. They were off in another part of the building drinking tea and going over the details for the fourth or fifth time, but Rebus liked to watch the lab boys at work. This was his idea of sleuthing. It also helped calm him, to watch someone working in such painstaking detail. And he certainly needed calming.
His plan had worked. He had, prodded and teased the Wolfman into action. He should, though, have realised the danger Lisa might be in. After all, her photo had been in the papers, as had her name: They had even mistakenly termed her a police' psychologist — the very people who, according to the earlier planted story, had come to the conclusion that the Wolfman might be gay, or transsexual, or any of the other barbs they had used. Lisa Frazer had become the Wolfman's enemy, and he, John Rebus, had led her into it by the nose. Stupid, John, oh so very stupid. What if the Wolfman had actually tracked her to her flat and …? No, no, no: he couldn't bear to think of it.
But though Lisa's name had appeared in the newspapers, her address had not. So how had the Wolfman found out her address? That was much more problematic.
And much more chilling.
She was ex-directory, for a start. But as he, knew only too well, this was no barrier to someone in authority, someone like a police officer. Jesus was he really talking about another police officer?. There had to be other candidates: staff and students at University College, other psychologists — they would know Lisa. Then there were those groups who could have linked an address to a name: civil servants, the local council, taxmen, gas and electricity boards, the postman, the guy next door, numerous computers and mailshot programmes, her local public library. Where could he start?
'Here you are, Inspector.'
One of the assistants handed him a photocopy of the typed letter.
'Thanks,' said Rebus.
'We're testing the original at the moment, scanning for traces of anything interesting. We'll let you know.'
'Right. What about the envelope?'
'The saliva tests will take a little longer. We should have something for you in the next couple of hours. There was also the photograph, of course, but it won't photocopy too well. We know which paper it was from, and that it was cut out with a pair off fairly sharp scissors, perhaps as small as manicure scissors judging from the length of each cut.'
Rebus nodded; staring at the photostat. 'Thanks again,' he said.
'No problem.'
No problem? That: wasn't right; there were plenty: of problems. He read through the letter. The typing seemed nice and even, as though the typewriter used was a new one, or a good quality model, something like the electronic machine he'd been using, this morning. As for the content, well, that was something else again.
GET THIS, I'M NOT HOMOSEXUL, O.K.? WOLFMAN IS WHAT WOLFMAN DOES. WHAT WOLFMAN DOES NEXT IS THIS: HE KILLS YOU. DON'T WORRY, IT WON'T HURT. WOLFMAN DOES NOT HURT; JUST DOES WHAT WOLFMAN IS. KNOW THIS, WOMIN, WOLFMAN KNOWS YOU, WHERE YOU LIVE, WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE JUST TELL THE TRUTH AND NO HARM CAN CUM TO YOU.
On a piece of plain A4-sized paper, folded in four to get it into the small white envelope. The Wolfman had cut a picture of Lisa from one of the newspapers. Then he had, cut her head off and drawn a dark pencilled circle on her stomach. And this photograph of her trunk had accompanied the letter.
'Bastard,' Rebus hissed. 'Jesus, you bastard.'
He took the letter along the corridor and up the stairs to the room where Flight was sitting, rubbing at his
